


no quarter

by neomeruru



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abortion, Anal Fingering, Blood Magic, Bottom Iron Bull, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Male Pregnancy, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Safeword Use, Scars, Top Dorian Pavus, Unplanned Pregnancy, sexual negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halward's blood magic ritual wasn't intended to change Dorian's orientation, it was intended to change his sex. When Dorian escapes and leaves the ritual half-completed, he leaves with a surprise: he can become pregnant, but without the necessary mechanisms in place... it's slowly killing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no quarter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustJasper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/gifts).



> Inspired by a prompt on Twitter by [JustJasper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/), who wished for tragic mpreg and also for fic where the pregnant character ends up willingly choosing an abortion.
> 
> Do you need to know if there's a happy ending before you start? Scroll to the notes at the end.
> 
> Recommended listening: [Sisyphus /w Sufjan Stevens, Son Lux, Serengeti - I Won't Be Afraid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmznzTuIHGQ)

Bull finds Dorian sitting on the bed in their room, turning a small scrap of white fabric over in his hands. "Taking up knitting? Getting domestic early. They say you don't start nesting until later."

Dorian laughs, barely a breath, no voice to it at all. "It's from our dear friend, Mother Giselle, by way of the Inquisitor. Apparently, every child is sacred," he said, putting the little scrap aside — a hat, Bull notes, edged with a fine bit of lacing around the hem — to rest one tentative hand against his abdomen. "Even the ones that are half evil Magister, half evil Qunari brute."

"Don't forget the evil blood mage part," Bull adds, and immediately regrets it when Dorian's face goes hard.

"How could I," he intones. "That's why we're in the mess."

Bull looks down at his hands, feels his hatred for Halward _fucking_ Pavus bloom and recede like a red tide. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Dorian answers, then laughs again with just as much humour. "Well, it is, actually, though we share that particular burden."

Bull grunts and looks away. "Fucking blood magic," he says, because he has nothing else to say.

Dorian makes a sound of agreement and strokes his stomach. "I find myself in agreement."

Bull takes a seat beside Dorian on the bed and they sit in silence for a while, not touching. The sound of practice drills wafts in from the courtyard far below, punctuated by the occasional warble of laughter from the tavern underneath their room.

He hears Dorian take in a breath as if to speak, but the moment passes. Bull lets it go. There's no leading Dorian anywhere.

"I want it," Dorian whispers into the stillness, "It's killing me, and I'm taking every herb I know to get it before it gets me, and I still wish it could have been real."

Bull reaches out to cradle Dorian's head in his hand. His skin is clammy and hot, sallow, shot through with broken blood vessels from the near-constant vomiting. Both eyes sport unfashionable dark rings, both from days-old unrefreshed kohl and from underneath, bruised too deeply to be salved by what little sleep he's been getting.

And yet the Bull feels that familiar swell in his heart, the thing neither of them could name until they'd found it in each other. "I'd rather have you," he says, as gently as possible.

"I can't just unlearn my…!" Dorian stops, looks lost for a moment like he's jumped into the ocean and forgotten how to swim. He swallows and tries again. "I've always known I… preferred the company of men. But I am still the son of an ancient house, and…"

Dorian's train of thought appears to stall again, and he pushes the Bull's hand away to put his own over his eyes. "Maker, but I do sound like my father."

Bull feels the disgust rumbling deep in his chest, but manages — he thinks — to tamp it down before it betrays him. Dorian's disgusted enough with himself, he doesn't need it from the Iron Bull. "They really know how to fuck up their children where you come from, don't they."

Dorian nods, hand still over his eyes. He leans forward, propping that elbow on his knee while the other rubs lightly over his stomach. Bending over like that makes it bulge a little, what little fat he has. It's not hard to imagine, in another life where it was actually physically possible and safe, sliding his hand alongside and feeling the life they made quicken underneath. The thought makes his throat tight, like an allergic reaction.

"It's not as if I'm opposed to the idea of children, just what I thought were the biological necessities of their conception. When I was a boy…" Dorian starts, and his voice is thick. "Before I knew about the… shall we say, _mechanics_ involved, I imagined being a father. No one knew to tell me otherwise. I would marry a tolerable man and have children by whatever means adults did these things, then I would inherit the house, take my seat in the Magisterium, and carry on the family name. Even when I learned it would be impossible, I still…"

Dorian's voice breaks, and his mouth works on words that don't come. "I don't know how to say it. I've never told anyone. I don't think I even knew, myself. I just pushed it down. I forced myself to forget. It was impossible." Bull watches Dorian's hands clench, and his mirror the gesture in sympathy. "It should have been impossible." 

"Just because you're…" Bull starts, and wants to continue with _pregnant_ , but the idea of saying it out loud still seems too absurd and his mouth rebels against it. "You don't owe anything to your family, and especially not to your father. He's the asshole who disowned _you_ , remember? The thing inside you isn't a Pavus any more than I am."

Dorian sighs, a small shuddering thing. "What will give it away, I wonder? The horns? I wonder if it will have horns. A half-Qunari child, blessed with my good looks."

"It's not a child, Dorian," Bull says, fiercely. He can see Dorian starting to slip sideways out of the conversation, out of his grasp. "And it's not a key that's going to unlock your father's love and acceptance. It's barely an idea. And as far as ideas go, I'm not fond of this one."

Dorian makes a thoughtful noise. "It is a child. Our child, as impossible and as dangerous as it sounds. I can't just…"

He lifts his head and turns his attention to the Bull. His eyes are wet and red-rimmed, but his face is dry — Dorian doesn't cry prettily, and does everything in his power to avoid it. "Do you have children already, Bull? Did they… use you… for…" Dorian gestures with his hand. "For how they do it."

Bull lets a few seconds of silence unspool while he debates whether there's any kindness in a lie. Eventually — as he always does — he settles on the truth. "Many, I would imagine," he says, and then pauses to give Dorian some time to parse that information. Dorian doesn't even flinch, but his stillness reminds the Bull of a deer who's spotted the hunter. "They don't tell you if it takes. There's no such thing as a father under the Qun."

Dorian blinks, and Bull can practically see the mask come over his face and shield his damnable, fragile heart. "Of course. You are a rather remarkable specimen, after all. I am glad I will never meet any of your children."

"Dorian…" Bull starts, but Dorian cuts him off by rising to his feet with a dramatic flourish. The light coming in from the unfinished roof outlines him in gold, motes of dust eddying around him. He looks like the little figurine of Andraste at the stake that Cullen prays to in the evening.

"There's nothing for it, Bull. There's no use pretending I'll survive this. No combination of herbs or ointments, human or elven or Qunari in origin alike, has succeeded in purging it. Look at the geometry, Bull—" he gestures to his slender torso, then makes an exaggerated bursting motion. "I'll die when it tears me open from the inside in a few months, when it will just… run out of room!"

Bull makes a strangled noise and reaches out to grab both of Dorian's hands at the wrist. He comes willingly, if a little sullen, putting first one knee on the bed and then throwing his whole body on it like a belle on her fainting couch. It's only the tragic, hard line of his back and the utter stillness of him that betrays his act for what it is. Bull releases his hands and runs his fingers down Dorian's back, feeling the muscles clench in the war to either turn into or away from his touch.

"There's a way through this," he says, hoping he sounds like he believes the words coming out of his own mouth.

Dorian turns his head to the side to be able to look at the Bull. "I just wish I'd had a choice. I wish I'd had… a chance. To know. That it could happen like this." He tucks his head back into the fold of his arms suddenly and Bull feels his back rise and fall in a shudder, knows the tears have finally come.

Bull strokes his back a few minutes, listening to Dorian work through a series of convulsive, dry sobs. There's no use for words. He can't think of anything, regardless. He rubs his thumbs into the hollows of Dorian's back and the tops of his thighs, where the cramping has hit him the hardest.

Eventually, Dorian stills and tries not to make a show of rubbing his face on the blanket. When he pushes himself to his hands and back to a sitting position, his eyes are bright red and his face is splotchy. He hiccups away a last sob and then huffs, an embarrassed smile stealing away the crime of his having a real emotion. He doesn't meet Bull's eye.

Bull runs his thumb under Dorian's left eye, smearing away a lingering tear. "There is a way. There has to be. We'll talk to Stitches tomorrow. He's been learning from that surgeon who's always on about humours."

Dorian scoffs. "If _real_ magic hasn't worked, her hedge-wizard _science_ doesn't stand a chance."

Bull covers Dorian's hands with his own. "It's worth a shot."

Dorian leans in and rests his head on the Bull's broad grey shoulder. "I want to live. I want to keep it, but… I want to live." He exhales all his breath in a rush. "Just one more of my personal failings, I suppose."

The Iron Bull presses his lips to Dorian's forehead, keeps them there. "I'd rather have you," he repeats. "Please, be selfish."

Dorian puts his hand on his stomach again, as if he can't keep it away.

—-

There are benefits to being a mercenary leader. Like being able to request house calls from your private surgeon, no questions asked.

"Which one of you is pregnant, then? I assume it's Dorian; the boss can keep any secret _but_ his own," Stitches says first, without preamble. He's barely put down his surgeon's bag.

Bull and Dorian fix him with twin incredulous looks. "How did you…" Dorian asks. Bull can feel him tense up, even from a few inches away.

"I know most of what happens around here," Stitches says, noncommittally. "Particularly, I know when I'm missing abortifacients from my kit, and I know there's only a few people with the balls to take them. They're hard to come by, the chief knows that. I thought he was taking them for someone else, but…" He looks around the room, taking in the crumbling ceiling and the vanity laden with Dorian's cosmetics, "...here I am."

Dorian tucks his hands under his arms and scowls, deeply. "Only a few people know. The Inquisitor, of course. She was at Redcliffe when my father explained the… the flaws in the procedure that led to this situation."

"His father magicked him to be able to get pregnant," Bull adds, for clarification.

Stitches frowns, as he always does when magic weirds his good, practical biology, but otherwise looks completely unfazed. Bull breathes a sigh of relief for his calm acceptance. "Normally, I would ask you when your last bleed started, but I'm assuming that's... not… applicable?" Stitches asks, raising an eyebrow at Dorian.

Dorian's scowl is incandescent. "Despite circumstances and best intentions, I am not and have never been a woman," he grates through his teeth. "Until two weeks ago, I had no idea it was even possible. By then, it was too late."

Stitches just smiles his ineffable smile. "I didn't want to assume. You're not the only man I know who can become pregnant... though admittedly, this isn't how it usually happens. I'd like to take a look, if I could. Could you take off your shirt and lie down?"

Dorian had taken to wearing looser clothing, in the Fereldan style, since the worst of the sickness came upon him. Bull watches as he pulls off his shirt, his eyes going (as they usually do) to Dorian's taut stomach. If it wasn't for the wrenching illness — and for Halward himself, who had first made them suspect the completely unbelieveable — Bull could almost imagine there was nothing there.

Dorian lies down on the bed, and Bull is by his side in an instant. He reaches down to grab Dorian's hand and stroke his palm.

"He's sick every day. He can't even sleep," Bull finds himself saying before he can stop himself, despite Dorian's constrained _tsk_ at having his dirty laundry aired. _Fuck it_ , Bull thinks; he trusts Stitches with his life, and he so desperately wants Dorian to survive that he feels it like a kick to the chest. "He doesn't eat or drink because it only makes it worse. And the cramping—"

"Bull," Dorian warns, but Bull shakes his head.

"Bullshit, Dorian. Two days ago I found you collapsed in the stairwell, and you had fainted. Actually _fainted_."

"When did the symptoms start?" Stitches asks, as he rolls up his sleeves to reveal slender, artistic forearms.

Dorian looks up at the ceiling. "Three months ago."

Stitches kneels beside the bed and begins palpating Dorian's abdomen, and Dorian squirms. "That's a good place to start," he mutters, deft hands working quickly over Dorian. "You're quite muscled. It's not surprising you're not showing yet. And you wouldn't feel it move until four or five months — oh."

Dorian and Bull both raise their heads in concern.

Stitches' mouth quirks up in a triumphant smile before tamping it down. "Oh — it's… nothing bad, it's just… here." He takes Dorian's hand and guides it so it presses firmly just above his pubic bone, a handspan below his navel. "I didn't know if I would be able to feel it. Can you?"

Dorian's head hits the pillow and he whimpers before letting out a string of Tevene, most of which the Bull recognizes as curses. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and stays like that, intermittently cursing under his breath.

"You… you can feel it," Bull echoes, disbelieving.

Dorian spits out a _particularly_ heretical curse.

Stitches puts his hands back on Dorian, fingers tracing the outline of something under the skin, about the size of a potato. "Clearly, actually. It's right where I'd expect to find a womb, and it's…" he trails off as he spans the length of the thing with his fingers, "...almost four months, I'd say."

Dorian makes a choking sound and turns away.

Stitches withdraws his hands and folds them in his lap as he rearranges himself on the floor. "It's no wonder the abortifacients haven't worked. If this is like a normal pregnancy, and I have no reason to suspect it's not other than the obvious, you're almost halfway through. After the first few months, it takes serious injury to end a pregnancy."

Dorian sits on the bed and starts pulling his shirt on. "My father wouldn't waste the energy on a weak heir. There's likely something in the magic that makes it more resilient."

"There's... exploratory surgery," Stitches says, slowly. "If I could see it, if I could physically remove it…"

"You're just going to cut into him and… what, see what's there?" Bull asks, rising to his feet. "You don't even know?"

Stitches doesn't rise to the challenge. He just spreads his hands, placating. "I've never actually seen a pregnant man before, chief. I don't even know where he's keeping it."

"You just felt it!" Bull exclaims, then, quieter: "You know where it is."

"The body is complex," Stitches replies. "And how it intersects with magic is… inconsistent. I don't know if it's attached to his intestinal wall, or if it's grown a pseudo-womb, or if…"

For a moment, Stitches looks like he's over his head. He turns to Dorian and leans in, the picture of solemnity. "Dorian… women who have their babies cut out from their wombs rarely survive in the first place, and this is something completely different. I don't know what I'll find inside you." His eyes dart to the Iron Bull, before he licks his lips and continues: "But the chief knows me; he didn't give me this name because I make people laugh. I'm good at what I do. And the alternative is letting it grow inside you, in a body never built to carry a child, with no way out in the end, and we end up having to cut it out of you anyway. You have a better chance if we do it now, while you're still healthy and the child is small."

Bull looks over at Dorian, helpless. Dorian's hands are folded in his lap, his posture perfectly straight. He lifts one elegant shoulder and lets it fall, as if nothing could be less important.

"Dorian, come on…" Bull pleads, and he's not sure what he's asking for.

Dorian's eyes are closed. "We all die. At least, if it happens, I've chosen the way."

\---

The room they find for the procedure is well lit, the summer sun reflecting off snowy peaks and streaming through the open gallery windows. Iron Bull thinks Josephine must have had a hand in kicking out some visiting noble, because the view is spectacular.

He only has eyes for Dorian, though. He stands near the head of the bed that sits under the brightest window, where Dorian lies as if already in state. He is naked, covered by a thin white blanket, and trembling. They both pretend it's from the cold.

"Krem's planning a party," he says, to make conversation. "He's not the most creative, though… it'll probably just look like a normal night for them."

Dorian makes a thoughtful noise. He hasn't looked away from the window for minutes. There's a lot to see for the last time, apparently. "Ensure he doesn't let Cabot cater it. I suspect I'll require more than nugmeat stew and piss ale to recover my strength."

A raven lands outside the window and starts quorking, and Dorian and Bull both watch it fumble with the window ledge before taking off again.

Dorian takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. "It would have been nice, wouldn't it have?"

The Bull squeezes Dorian's hand. "It sure would have."

Vivienne comes in, carrying a tray laden with Stitches' tools. She nods brusquely at the two as she sets it down beside the bed. She's traded in her usual elaborate Orlesian regalia for a simple white frock, belted under the waist and bare to the elbow.

"Are you prepared, pet?" she asks, and Bull can hear the edge in her voice under the pleasant tone. It's fine, though. He thinks it's better to have an appreciation for the hard work of keeping Dorian asleep for the procedure than it is to go in expecting it to be easy. Then again, that's what makes Vivienne the perfect surgical aide. She doesn't do anything just for show.

Dorian nods and finally turns his head away from the window. "I haven't done my make-up," he quips. "I can't meet the Maker without my face on."

Vivienne cracks a vanishing smile. "He'll have to wait for the privilege, then."

Bull clears his throat, distinctly uncomfortable. Vivienne gives him a sympathetic look. "Your surgeon friend will be here soon. You might wish Dorian well now, rather than on your way out the door."

Dorian's schooled his face into something that looks like nonchalance, but Bull knows better. Still, he makes the choice to play it above the table, for Dorian's sake. These aren't his cards. He leans in and presses a warm kiss to Dorian's forehead, and then on his lips. "Break a leg," he says.

"I'm in the very best place for it," Dorian smiles, and kisses him again lightly. "Go, I'll be fine."

As the Iron Bull turns to go, Dorian flails for his hand and grasps it at the wrist. "I don't want to die," he says, urgently. As if he'd forgotten, or he thought Bull might have. His fingers dig into Bull's soft flesh, little crescents of pain. 

Bull looks over at Vivienne, standing at the head of the bed like the knight she is. He tries not to think of her as a guardian spirit. She strokes Dorian's forehead tenderly, and he closes his eyes as tears spill down his cheeks.

"You must say goodbye, darling. Lingering will only cost us the daylight," she says, brushing a lock of Dorian's hair out of his face.

"Shit, ma'am. This might be the last time he…" Bull starts, and can't finish. He holds Dorian's hand to his chest with both of his own hands, feels tears prickle in his remaining eye. "Give a guy a little time."

"He does not have the luxury of time, my dear," Vivienne answers, sadly. "None of us do."

Bull finds himself sinking to his knees beside Dorian's bed, and he presses his forehead to Dorian's hand. It uncurls slowly and runs along his horns, slowly over the place where flesh gives way to bone, before drifting down his cheek to tilt his head up. Bull takes the hint and surges forward to kiss Dorian, cupping his face in his hands.

Dorian kisses him with equal fervor, nipping him like he desires to leave a mark by which to be remembered. Bull groans and relents, lets him steer the kiss until it becomes chaste and they part, a little breathless. He presses his forehead to Dorian's and inhales, taking in the smell of him alive underneath his hands.

A door opens and Stitches clears his throat. The Iron Bull feels Dorian smile, putting on his brave face even now.

"Goodbye, _kadan_ ," he whispers, feeling hot traitorous tears finally break down his cheek.

"I'll see you on the other side," Dorian whispers.

Bull has plenty of time to consider all the possibilities of that statement.

—-

He can't just keep vigil outside of Dorian's room, so he picks a direction and gets to walking. His feet take him through the courtyard and main hall, down the main stairs and into the bright midday sunlight of the practice yard.

He takes a handaxe from the weapons rack and hurls it at a dummy. It makes a satisfying _thunk_ as the dummy erupts in a cascade of hay and linen. He dusts his hands and grunts, appreciative of the destruction.

Cassandra looks up from her book and takes one look at The Iron Bull, and another at the split dummy. She considers both for a moment, then catches the Bull's eye and nods once, appraising. She doesn't take her eyes off him as she retrieves her shield and they both pick up practice blades, letting him soak in the challenge, letting it settle into his bones.

Sparring with Cassandra is like fighting a stone wall. She takes and takes from his guard and from his composure, and so rarely gives any away. He lets himself lose his conscious mind in fighting her, chasing her backwards around the yard by slow steps. She doesn't waste time or motion in dodging his swings, just swallows them with solemn efficiency and steps back to give him more room to strike. Every so often she lunges forward and gets him on the shoulder or the thigh, keeping him watchful and respectful of her strength. The shadows begin to lengthen, and he's aware of a small crowd starting to form, but he doesn't need to take his eyes from her.

When a vicious blow across his knuckles forces the sword from his hand, he finally breaks from the melee and turns away, shaking out his hands and stomping his feet. He can feel the blood thundering in his neck, and it feels good. It feels like living. He doesn't look up at the window of the room where Dorian could be dying.

He makes a circuit of the yard, still brimming with anxious energy and not an inconsiderable amount of battlelust. When he comes back around to Cassandra, Cullen is standing beside her, shield in hand. He raises an eyebrow at the Iron Bull over the rim of his shield and cocks his head with a smirk.

Bull answers him with a roar and charges, ramming his shoulder into Cullen's shield, and is gratified to find it hold. Cullen pushes him backwards with a grunt. "Again!" he barks, and Bull charges him again, throwing himself into the shield like a wave breaking on the rocks.

He manages, eventually, through sheer attrition, to bully Cullen into lowering his shield. His vision swims and then sharpens, red; he goes in high, over Cullen's shield—

—the blow hits him from his blind side, Cassandra's shield catching him by surprise and knocking him ass over horns in the dust. His breath leaves him and he tries to take in more, but the dust settles in his lungs and he coughs, laughs, coughs some more. Cassandra comes into his field of vision and kicks his foot goodnaturedly, keeps kicking until he starts to stir.

"Get up, Bull," she says with a smile and extends her hand. "We have you."

They let him batter himself with great prejudice against their shields for what feels like a good hour or so, until the skin of his hands and shoulders is red, and chapped, and bruising. Working together they're practically impenetrable, which the Bull appreciates. He needs something to destroy, even if it's himself.

They slow down by mutual decision; Cassandra and Cullen lowering their shields at the same time as Bull bends over with his hands on his knees. He feels raw, hollowed out, and lets the pain wash over him in waves, cresting in his joints. He holds the pain close for a moment and lets it go, breathing deeply. His knuckles trickle blood down his legs.

Cullen comes to stand before him and only hesitates a little before wrapping his hand around Bull's neck and pressing their foreheads together. Cassandra doesn't hesitate at all when Cullen withdraws, just bunts her head against his and presses it there firmly, as if making a point.

Iron Bull draws himself to his full height and scrubs his hand over his face. Cullen and Cassandra look up at him until he nods. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks."

They both nod back, the same blunted Chantry soldier nod. Cullen clasps him by the arm and squeezes, pats him like greeting an old friend. They turn and make their way to the edge of the training yard, bumping shoulders companionably, and the Bull smiles before turning his own way. He can't help but steal a look at Dorian's window; the sun has angled so that the expensive panes of real glass are lit up like a fire burns inside.

He tries to move his feet, but finds he can't. There's nowhere else that calls to him, and he knows he can't just sit in the tavern in his usual spot, listening to his boys all tell the same beautiful stories, staring at Dorian's ghost in the chair across from him. It feels too heartbreaking to go lie in his empty bed and simply wait, and he doesn't particularly feel like haunting Dorian's chair in the library. Besides, he wants to be available when…

Bull sinks to his knees, feels his fucked-up one groan in resentment. He puts his hands on his thighs and just turns his head to the sky, taking a deep steadying breath. _Shok ebasit hissra; meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun; maraas shokra_ , he thinks to himself.

He listens to the sounds of Skyhold's business continuing as usual, little attention paid to one lone Tal-Vashoth wondering if his world has ended. Bull ruminates on that for a while, until his knee threatens to seize up and he reluctantly rises to his feet.

Time must pass somehow; Bull comes to this conclusion only after the fact as he looks around to find the whole courtyard in shadow and realizes he has little conception of the time between then and now.

Activity in the courtyard is just slow enough that he notices when the great doors of the main hall open and a figure in white emerges: Vivienne, looking spotless, and the Bull would think of a joke about how of course she would have changed after the very bloody business of cutting his lover open — if he wasn't suddenly so _terrified_ to see her.

She scans the courtyard for him, and inclines her head slightly when her eyes alight upon him. Her expression is unreadable in the distance and the failing blue light, but it doesn't matter; he's already on his way up the stairs. As he passes Vivienne, he catches her smiling.

—-

He hasn't seen the scar directly, but he knows it's brutal; he's caught glimpses of it while Dorian changes, or in the mornings when sleep has rucked Dorian's shirt up above his navel. It stretches higher than that and below the waistband of his pants as well, jagged and asymmetrical. When he was well enough to stand and dress himself, it was the first thing Dorian fussed over. Bull breathed a sigh of relief that day, at the blessing of your lover being well enough to give a shit about shallow things.

He still skirts around the scar, most of the time. Dorian prefers it like that, and writhes away when Bull mouthes too far down his chest. But he can't help it sometimes, like today; sometimes he has to press his face to Dorian's stomach, even if it's just through his shirt. And sometimes he has to push a little, because Dorian is too good a man not to push.

"Bull, stop—" Dorian says, putting his hands on Bull's horns. And he does, for a moment, just long enough to meet Dorian's eyes and check in. The look on Dorian's face isn't terror, not a red light, but it is… uncomfortable. Ashamed. It makes the Bull ache in his heart. He shakes his head.

"I want to see this beautiful body again," Bull says, slipping his hands under the thin linen of Dorian's sleep shirt. Dorian groans and shifts, and the Bull can see him visibly war with himself not to say the word that would truly stop him.

He waits a few heartbeats but the word doesn't come, so he gently he runs his calloused fingers down Dorian's stomach. The scar is healed but still raised a little, surrounded by little trenches where not even Stitches could have kept the skin from puckering. He traces its wicked line across the flat brown plane of Dorian's abdomen to where it disappears just above Dorian's pubic hair.

The Iron Bull runs his hands up Dorian's sides, bringing the hem of his shirt with them, and takes a good look at the scar for the first time. He can feel Dorian's eyes bore into the top of his head.

"That's badass," he rumbles, "Look at what you walked away from."

Dorian huffs, but there's laughter in it alongside the insecurity.

He leans in and traces that trail again with his lips, revelling in the clean, sleep-sweat smell of Dorian's skin and the way it changes in texture as he goes lower.

He takes Dorian in his mouth, engulfing his half-hard dick in one clean swallow. Dorian shouts and kicks Bull's thigh, back arching in a perfect bow. Bull can't help but smile, hopes Dorian can feel that smile pressed against the soft, curling hair at the base of his dick.

He works his throat a few times and Dorian groans, grows thicker and longer in Bull's mouth with haste. He slides his mouth off slowly, flourishing the _pop_ of his wet mouth at the end. Dorian's dick smacks against his stomach and Bull laves him a few times from balls to tip, lingering a moment just under the ridge because it makes Dorian gasp so prettily and start to tremble.

" _Kaffas_ , Bull — mercy, please—" Dorian gasps, his hips jerking with the effort to stay still for a master at work.

The Iron Bull feels benevolent enough in that moment to wrap his lips around Dorian's cockhead and suck gently, tongue offering a counterpoint of pressure against his frenulum. Dorian starts whining and only stops to pant, shallow and voiceless, taking a deep intake of breath when Bull takes him all in again.

He sneaks his hand over Dorian's stomach and presses a little — not hard, but enough to make Dorian's whole body shudder and go tight with fear and desire both. "No—" he gasps, then: "Yes, _yes_ , please—"

The Iron Bull reaches up Dorian's body to press two fat fingers against Dorian's lips. "Get these wet for me," he orders, and Dorian closes his eyes and moans as Bull slips his fingers in. Dorian's mouth is hot and wet and willing.

He pulls his fingers back and they are shiny and dripping freely. He looks up at Dorian and catches his eye, gives him a little eyebrow wiggle and Dorian laughs a little, his face flushed all the way down to his chest. 

The Bull takes Dorian in his mouth again and shifts so he can put one of Dorian's legs over his shoulder, so he can slip his hand underneath. With his dry fingers he spreads Dorian's cheeks, runs the sopping wet ones down his crack to find where his flesh puckers and opens. He circles it lazily, feels Dorian go through cycles of tensing and relaxing against the tips of his fingers.

He rubs his finger there a little harder, dipping into the hot clench of Dorian's hole and stretching that rim of muscle. Dorian makes a broken noise and moans, throwing his head back. His breath comes in staccato bursts, thighs trembling, his hands fluttering anxiously on Bull's horns.

He can tell the moment Dorian girds himself to break. " _Katoh_ ," he says softly, tapping Bull on the head. Bull takes his hand away from Dorian's hole and carefully, mindful of his horns, rests his cheek on the soft skin of Dorian's thigh.

"You alright, big guy?" he asks.

Dorian nods, and throws his arm over his face. "I just… needed to stop. That."

"You wanna talk about it?"

Dorian's mouth is a hard, upset line. "I don't know how to say it."

Well, the Iron Bull can work with that. He runs his knuckles up the underside of Dorian's dick, eliciting a small quirk of a smile. "This was good, yeah?"

Dorian swallows and nods. Bull watches his throat bob with some interest. "Yes — more of that, if you please."

The Bull drifts his knuckles down over Dorian's balls and lightly traces the seam of his ass. "Not so much?"

Even without Bull applying pressure, Dorian starts to shift upwards and away. Under his cheek, the Bull can feel the muscles of his thigh work against the urge to panic and flee. He withdraws his hand again and strokes down Dorian's other thigh. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You wanna stop?"

Dorian reaches down and squeezes his own cock, beading a little spurt of pre-come. "Maker, no, I just…" He exhales in a rush. "I don't think I can do that, Bull. I can't go through that again."

Bull lets Dorian's leg slip off his shoulder and levers himself up the bed to lie beside Dorian. He props himself up on his elbow and leans in for a kiss; Dorian kisses so sweetly, all lips and just the tip of his tongue, until Bull tries to pull away and he gets a little nip for his troubles. He grumbles and kisses Dorian again, lightly, pouring all his affection into that point of contact.

Dorian takes Bull's face in both hands and withdraws, licking his lips and catching the bottom one in his teeth. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Iron Bull drops his head to rest it against Dorian's. "Don't be," he says. "We're not doing anything you're not comfortable with. You want to stop, we stop—"

Dorian makes a noise in the negative.

"—and if you want to try something different, we try something different." Dorian's hands waver around his head, so he tilts his face into one of Dorian's palms and lays a kiss there too. "And I've got plenty of ideas about 'something different.'"

Dorian ducks his head and laughs a little, and Bull's heart warms to hear the fear ebb from his voice. "Would you… ride me?" he asks, a little haltingly. "It still hurts to move around… or we could try something else…"

The Bull silences him with a kiss, and he can feel Dorian smile. "I'll ride you with great pleasure, big guy."

Dorian laughs for real, and reaches out to the side table to cast around for the flat canister of oil somewhere on its surface. He makes a triumphant noise when he finds it, and makes a show of blowing off an imaginary layer of dust before unscrewing the lid.

The Bull levers himself up on his knees and swings one leg over Dorian so he's facing away. Dorian's fingers immediately sink into the soft flesh of the Bull's hind end, and he falls forward on his hands with an appreciative groan.

"Yeah, that's good," he says, and looks over his shoulder to find Dorian grinning. "You want me to do the honours?"

Dorian shakes his head. "You can help, though."

The Bull watches Dorian slick his fingers — two straight away, no need for subtlety when your lover is practically twice your size. He reaches back to spread himself for Dorian and lets out a moan when he feels Dorian's fingers slide down the crevice of his ass. Dorian's fingers press against his hole, rubbing around the rim firmly before breaching it. Dorian goes easy, just his fingertips at first, but it's not long before Bull finds himself pushing back on Dorian's fingers.

" _Kaffas_ ," Dorian swears under his breath, and uses his hold on Bull's ass to pull him even further down. It elicits a moan from the Bull that feels like it comes right from his toes. _Fuck_ , it's been a long time since anyone took care of him like this.

The Bull sticks one finger in his mouth and collects a gob of saliva, and reaches back to circle his hole where it's stretched around Dorian's slender fingers. "Fuck, yes," Dorian encourages, and with some effort the Bull slides his finger in alongside Dorian's. The effect is immediate — the Bull hangs his head and groans, panting around the burn. He watches as his dick burbles up a stream of pre-come.

They improvise a rhythm that sometimes has them meeting on the same stroke, stretching Bull even wider. The burn is pleasant, brings the good kind of tears to his eye. Dorian takes his free hand off of Bull a moment — when the Bull looks down he sees it working on Dorian's dick, newly shiny with fresh oil.

"Turn around," Dorian says, and slides his fingers out of Bull. He follows suit and quickly turns himself around to face Dorian, and all the wondrous adoration blatant on his face.

The Bull takes Dorian in hand and lines himself up, sinking onto his dick to the hilt in one smooth motion that makes them both moan. Dorian reaches up to clasp Bull's face, strokes his thumb below his eyepatch until Bull leans down for a kiss. He rolls his hips and Dorian keens into his mouth, lips barely touching as they share each other's breath.

He slides his hand between their bodies to feel where they're joined. The scar makes itself known under his fingers, a solemn reminder of what could have been. Dorian whimpers into his mouth and kisses him more deeply, and Bull takes that as his cue to ride him harder. His own dick bobs untouched against his stomach, but he's not chasing his own pleasure.

"Come on, big guy," he gasps, "Show me what you've got."

Dorian throws his head back against the pillows, curses and groans tumbling out of his mouth in equal measure and with barely a break for breath. His head thrashes from side to side, hair rucked up around him like a halo. The Bull puts a steadying hand on his chest and snaps his hips, clenching around Dorian until Dorian arches his back and comes with a shout.

He rides out Dorian's orgasm, the way much more slick and warm now, until Dorian stills and takes in big gulps of air. He runs his fingers giddily down Bull's dick, but Bull pulls away and carefully extricates himself.

"Hold on, I've got an idea. Trust me a little longer," he says, and swings his leg off of Dorian and repositions them both so he kneels between Dorian's legs, watching Dorian's heavy-lidded gaze on him for signs of that panic from before. When it doesn't come, he strokes his hands down Dorian's legs and hoists him up at the knees, putting both legs over one shoulder.

He leans over and slicks his hand, rubs it over his dick and suppresses a shudder of pleasure. He'd been close, but this is better. Dorian folds his arms behind his head and arches his back, which tightens his thighs.

"Good boy," Bull rumbles appreciatively, and Dorian flushes again with a pleased smile. He lines himself up with the soft space where Dorian's thighs only barely touch, snug right up against his balls and his beautiful, softening dick, and gently slides himself home.

"Mmm," Dorian groans, reaching down to squeeze the last bit of come from his dick. His knuckles brush against the underside of Bull's cockhead and the Bull leans in to chase the feeling. With the change of position he can feel Dorian's come trickle out of his hole with every thrust, and he can't deny that it makes him burn hot. He turns his head into Dorian's calf and opens his mouth to it, keeps thrusting into the tight warm space of Dorian's thighs.

His own orgasm rises upon him slowly, leisurely. He locks eyes with Dorian as it comes towards him like the dawn chasing away the night. He watches a wicked smile take over Dorian's expression, feels himself answer it as he pushes Dorian's legs aside and takes the short few shuffles forward on his knees to get in line with Dorian's face.

Dorian opens his mouth just as the Iron Bull drags himself over the finish line, the first jet of come landing across his lips, the second over his cheekbone. Dorian takes the rest out of the Bull's hands as he surges forward to suckle the last hot spurts right from the source. Bull groans and collapses forward, hands on either side of Dorian's head as Dorian does his good work.

"Fuck _me_ ," he breathes, and Dorian laughs with the obvious joke. Bull looks down between his arms to see Dorian looking back up at him. He slides himself down the bed to kiss him, tasting where his own come still glistens on his lips.

Dorian pulls back and wipes at the come across his cheekbones with one finger and offers it to him. He takes the finger in his mouth and sucks noisily, eliciting a sound of pleasure from Dorian, then leans in to share the taste with him.

The kiss lazily like that for a good few minutes, taking the time to rearrange themselves so their bodies are intertwined. The Bull slides his arm under Dorian's head in lieu of the pillow and the gambit works, because Dorian slides into his space like he was meant to be there.

The Iron Bull runs his fingers down Dorian's arm. "Still alright?" he asks.

Dorian doesn't bury his face into Bull's side, but from the way he startles Bull can tell it's a near miss. And he appreciates that it takes Dorian some time to answer, because he wants the real one, not the smokescreen. "I think I am," Dorian eventually answers. "I'm not… I'm still sorry I couldn't…"

The Bull makes a disgruntled noise.

"...but I am all right. I'm in one piece, I'm not crying. All in all, a successful fuck," Dorian quips.

"Hmmn," Bull responds, reaching underneath him to retrieve the canister of oil and toss it onto the nightstand. "You don't ever have to get comfortable with it again, if you want. Unless we can find a way to reverse what your father did to you, for good, I'm not risking losing you again. Even if you are a good lay."

Dorian chuckles and turns his body fully into Bull's embrace. "Oh, that? That was nothing. Just a flesh wound."

The Bull shakes his head. "I'm not joking about this. The day you were in surgery was the worst I've had since leaving Seheron. All I could think about was how I'd never been given the chance to be a father, and then when the chance came along, it was at the sacrifice of the only person I've ever truly loved. Not being able to protect you… not being able to protect even the _idea_ of my own child, after realizing I've had so many taken from me…"

He closes his eye and inhales deeply of Dorian's hair before continuing. "When I followed the Qun, it had never occurred to me. But faced with it, faced with the reality of someone I love actually carrying my child… I'm going to carry the memory of every one of them with me now. And I'm grateful you're not one of those memories."

Dorian's quiet for a long time, then: "Why, Bull, that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

Bull laughs despite himself, kisses Dorian on the top of his head. "Don't be a little shit; I was being serious for once."

Dorian levers himself up to kiss Bull properly, deeply. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, and takes Bull's hand to rest it upon his scarred abdomen. "This is proof. I'm going to stick around."

The Bull nods. "Good. I'm holding you to that."

Dorian rests his head on the Bull's chest. "I am held."

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER: Dorian survives a surgical abortion and has a stressful sexual experience where he uses his safeword, but ultimately manages to overcome some of the baggage left behind by the trauma of his unexpected pregnancy and abortion. END SPOILER.
> 
> Hi! I normally do art. Find me here: www.chaoslindsay.tumblr.com


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